


but you built me dreams instead

by A_Book_Thief



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Credence heals slowly, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Newt and his smiles and weird tea are helping, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 13:58:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8670250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Book_Thief/pseuds/A_Book_Thief
Summary: Credence is nothing but whispering darkness.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JuliaBaggins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaBaggins/gifts).



> Written for Julia, as a little thank you, because you helped me so much in the last days and always found exactly the right moments to make me smile <3
> 
> Translated into [Pусский](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5024830/12962660) by the wonderful LlamaDrama.

_“I would have written you, myself, if I could put down in words everything I want to say to you. A sea of ink would not be enough."_  
_"But you built me dreams instead.”_

_―Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus_

* * *

Credence is nothing but whispering darkness. Sometimes he forgets he just has to open his eyes.

* * *

In his first week, he learns three things about Newt Scamander:

1\. He’s constantly threatening to burst with all that energy bundled up inside of him, which makes him jittery and nervous and excited, fluttering around like the creatures he hides in his pockets.

2\. He never looks into Credence’s eyes when he’s talking to him.

3\. His smile can light up the whole universe.

Credence hasn’t met another person like him before, the odd mix of awkward hesitation and soft kindness. He’s been raised between screams and shadows and sacrifices, and it isn’t easy to forget.

* * *

Credence is nothing but whispering darkness, and suddenly, there is another voice.

* * *

“I thought that maybe you’d like some tea?” Newt’s voice makes a question of what should have been a casual statement and Credence looks up from the book in his lap. He’s all sharp angles today, windswept hair and yellow-and-black scarf wrapped multiple times around his neck. It must be cold up there, in the real world. Credence doesn’t know. He hasn’t left the suitcase in a while.

Newt’s teas are always a precarious thing. He just tosses together whatever herbs he finds lying around and adds some liquids from badly-labelled vials for good measure. Surprisingly, it works most of the time. Credence thinks you must be truly British for that particular talent.

He nods. “Thank you.” The words taste strange on his tongue, still.

Newt doesn’t come closer, instead uses his wand and some quickly murmured spell to send the cup floating from his hand to settle next to Crendence’s left knee on the floor. It’s the blue mug with the white polka dots and the tea tastes like cinnamon and honey. It warms him up from the inside, he likes that feeling.

“What are you reading?” Newt’s still some feet away, hovering next to the ladder that sometimes sweeps him up into the real world, away from his creatures and the lost boy sipping tea in a suitcase.

“Everything.” Credence looks at him and Newt looks away, always looks away. “All the books I can find. I want to know. I want to learn. There are so many things I know nothing about, and they’re all incredible.” _I want._ Unfamiliar words, but he’s getting better at saying them.

Newt tips his head to the right, considering. “One day, Credence,” he says, slowly and solemn, “One day I’m going to take you up with me. Out there, into the real world. I’m going to show you Diagon Alley. And then we’re getting you a wand.”

* * *

Credence is nothing but whispering darkness, and there is a voice calling his name.

* * *

Newt is sitting at the far end of the table, leaving so much space between him and Credence. The candlelight is flickering across the pages he’s spread between them, ink on parchment, still glistening, not dry yet. He’s writing a book, he told Credence, a book to make wizards and witches understand the beauty of magical beasts. It seems to be a tedious work, the endless struggle for sentences to tell what words will never be able to describe.

He’s drawing, too, with his wand tucked behind his ear, brow furrowed deeply in concentration. He always shows Credence what he’s made, pages offered with an awkward smile. He doesn’t seem to realise he’s good at it.

Credence tries to stay silent in order not to disturb him, tries to read. But the book is about the history of magic and all the talking about burning witches is making his hands shake and he thinks _no, no, no._

He looks at Newt and feels the shadows tugging inside him.

He stands up and clenches his shaking hands into fists. He decides to make tea. Newt says that tea always calms people down. Newt’s too lost in his own thoughts to realise when Credence starts throwing herbs together.

(In the end, the tea tastes like apple, cherry wood and, strangely, pepper. Turns out you need to be British after all.)

* * *

Credence is nothing but whispering darkness, and he can hear it: “Credence,” a voice says over and over, _“Credence.”_

* * *

Newt is talking to the branch that lives in his pocket. Credence has seen stranger things. They are laughing, he thinks. Or at least—Newt is. The branch is shaking, which might as well be from laughter.

Suddenly, Newt looks up, as if he’s sensed Credence watching them from the corner.

“Pickett says you should grow your hair.” His tone is light and warm. Playful. He’s laughing about Credence, but it isn’t cruel. It’s soft. That’s surprising. “He’s awfully picky when it comes to these things. He always tells me he doesn’t like my vest with the embroidered moose. I bought it in Norway. It’s warmer than the rest of my clothes. And it looks funny. _Ouch_.”

The branch has pinched his arm and Newt scowls at it. “It _does,_ Pickett. It’s fashionable.”

“You always wear such weird clothes,” Credence blurts out before he can stop himself. He ducks his head, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No.” Newt lets the branch climb onto his shoulder and looks at Credence, head tilted sideways. His voice is silent, startled. “No, it’s quite all right.” He’s looking at him like he’s seeing something new for the first time and it makes Credence uncomfortable. “I can borrow you some, if you want. They’ll be a little big on you, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I—“ Credence trails off before the sentence has started properly. He doesn’t know what to say anyway.

“I think they’d suit you.” The branch whispers something in Newt’s ear and he chuckles. “Pickett agrees vehemently.”

Credence's chest feels warm, even though he hasn’t drunk any tea. Weird.

Before Newt can turn away, he finds to courage to finally say: “Can I … can I have the scarf?”

* * *

Credence is nothing but whispering darkness, and a voice calls his name, and he answers.

* * *

His hands are shaking so badly that the book tumbles to the floor with a bang.

“Credence!” Newt shoots up immediately from where he’s been feeding and tickling the mooncalves, and in the silvery light his eyes are huge and afraid.

The world swims in front of Credence’s eyes, too loud, too close, too much to handle, and he drops to his knees. He’s trembling like a leaf and he doesn’t realise he’s crying until Newt crouches in front of him, one hand outstretched as if trying to touch him.

“I’m dangerous,” he whispers, and oh, he’d known it, but he’d also kind of started to forget it over the last weeks, in the humming presence of Newt Scamander. “I’m dangerous.”

“Credence—“ Newt’s hand is only inches away and Credence flinches back, tries to bring some space between them. He curls up into a tight little ball, shutting everything out.

“I’m _dangerous_ ,” he hisses, or sobs, or bites out, he can’t tell.

“Credence, no—“

“I’m a monster!” His own words rip through him like the spells of the Aurors in a subway-station in New York City. “I’m a mistake of nature, an abnormality, a _beast_.”

Newt winces like he’s been slapped in the face by his last word. His eyes are dark, flitting across the floor, landing on the discarded book. He sounds sad, when he says, “You’ve been reading about Obscuri, haven’t you?”

Credence lifts his head and looks at him through the blur of his tears. The words tumble helplessly from his lips. “Why,” he asks, shaking, “Why do you keep me around when I’m not safe for anyone?”

* * *

Credence is nothing but whispering darkness, and he reaches for the voice, and he is begging. “Help me,” he sobs and it hurts _so much,_ “Please, just help me.”

* * *

Newt smiles and his eyes still don’t quite meet Credence’s, and on his outstretched palm the branch waits with crossed—well, tinier branches.

“Pickett says he’d like you to hold him.”

Credence shakes his head, fingers clasping the yellow-and-black fabric of his scarf. He’s wearing it when he needs something to remind him of reality.

“I—I can’t. He’s so fragile. I’m just gonna hurt him.” He’s only whispering, but Newt hears him anyway.

His face is soft. “That’s nonsense, Credence,” he says. “And you know it. You can be so gentle if you want to.” He comes closer, just one step, but that means that Credence can no longer escape his humming energy, and somehow that’s calming. Nearly as good as tea. “Do you trust me, Credence?”

_I don’t know. I want to._

Newt smiles again, as if he can read his thoughts, like the witch he sometimes talks about, Queenie. He moves slowly, treating Credence like one of his precious beasts. His fingers touch Credence’s wrist to lift his arm and place the branch in his open hand. It’s the most fleeting of moments—but it’s enough to send a shiver down Credence’s spine. He can’t remember the last time he’s been touched so gently.

(He can. It’s been a dark alley and a familiar face and a soothing voice promising a world full of magic and a better future. They’d touched gently and he’d earned a slap afterwards.)

His hand trembles just slightly, but the branch nearly loses his balance. Credence brings up his other hand to steady him with his fingers without thought. “I’m sorry,” he mouths, and the branch loops one of his … branches around his thumb, hugs him and holds him close. He dances a little, which tickles Credence.

“Hello, Pickett,” he whispers, and it feels incredible.

He meets Newt’s eyes, and for a second, neither of them looks away. He feels something tugging at him that isn’t darkness, for once. He gives in, breathes deep

and

smiles.

* * *

Credence is nothing but whispering darkness, and the voice says, “I’m here, Credence, I’m here.”

* * *

Sometimes, when Newt has been outside in the real world, he brings a bunch of letters back. He’s extraordinarily jittery on these occasions, which tells Credence that they have American stamps.

Newt doesn’t talk much about other people—if anything, he talks about his creatures with this special light in his eyes that lets Credence think of the galaxies he’s read about in Newt’s astronomy books. There are only three people in the world that are able to conjure the same light.

This is how Credence learns about the woman who has saved him once and tried to save him another time, Tina Goldstein, with the courageous heart, who sometimes lets Newt get silent and stare into the distance and touch his cheek with a faraway look on his face.

This is how he learns about her sister Queenie, the one who’s so gentle and kind despite her power that Credence sometimes can’t believe that she really exists.

This is how he learns about Jacob Kowalski, the man who starts slowly remembering all the magic he’s fallen in love with, the one who decided to bake sweet things to make other people smile.

This is how he learns that Newt misses them, noticing it in the way he speaks of his friends: without his usual aura of nervousness around people, without the stuttering and the unsure glances. He speaks of them like he speaks of his beasts: like he feels at home with them.

This is how he decides to be brave and wait for Newt to come down the ladder the next day, blue coat swirling around him, and tell him, “If you miss them so much, you should go back to them.”

This is how Newt stops in his tracks and looks at him. Looks at him and looks at him and doesn’t look away, in his blue coat and with his silent smile.

“I’ll go back,” he says, “But I want to finish my book first. They’ll want something to read when I return to them. I made a promise.” His face says more than his words would ever do, and something inside Credence tugs again. Darkness.

“But,” Newt says, and he’s still looking at him, open and honest, “I’d never go without you. I’ll take you anywhere with me, as long as you want to come along.”

* * *

Credence is nothing but whispering darkness, and the voice says, _“Open your eyes, Credence.”_

* * *

Sometimes now, they touch. It’s almost always accidental.

Newt tells Credence all his secrets about tea, and their fingers collide when they collect the herbs. (He’s getting better, but sometimes, he still lacks a British touch.) Credence shows Newt something in a book he doesn’t understand, and Newt’s hair brushes his cheek when he leans over his shoulder. Newt shows Credence which creature gets which food and sometimes they bump into each other when they make their way up to the mooncalves.

It’s a bit like the Auror spells again, Credence thinks. The same buzzing energy. But gentler. So much gentler.

* * *

Credence is nothing but whispering darkness, and when he opens his eyes, he blinks into the sunlight.

* * *

Sometimes, he wakes up screaming.

It happened a lot during his first weeks in the suitcase. He’d dream of colours—no, not real colours, just a blinding white and an all-consuming black and in between the most terrible shades of grey. He’d dream of those colours and their constant battle for dominance, and then, he’d hear their voices.

Sometimes, it was his mother. Sometimes, it was Graves—no, not the real Graves, Grindelwald, it was Grindelwald, stealing a body and whispering broken promises into ears that fell too easily for the lies.

He still wakes up screaming, but now it’s worse. (And better at the same time, but he doesn’t want to admit that.)

It’s worse because during the first weeks, Newt couldn’t hear him. During the first weeks, he’d been outside most of the time, first on a ship and then in a city that’s drowning in the smoke of its own factories and chimneys. Running around and trying to find people who’d print a book that wasn’t written yet.

During the first weeks, Newt couldn’t hear him and Credence didn’t need a reason to muffle his cries.

But now he’s here with his humming presence and soothing tea and windswept hair and eyes that can’t stay focused at one place. He’s here and that means that Credence bites into his own fist as soon as he realises he’s screaming and shakes under the covers and prays that he hasn’t woken him up.

Newt’s a light sleeper. Years of expeditions taught him to startle at the most silent noises, never sure about oncoming danger.

He’s always crouching next to Credence’s shaking form before the screams have quite stopped. He lights his wand and whispers calming nonsense and promises into the night. He waits for Credence’s desperate heartbeat to slow down again and stretches his arm out to brush some of the slightly longer strands of hair from his face.

Credence closes his eyes at the soft touch.

* * *

Credence is nothing but whispering darkness, and he realises that the sunlight is actually a smile.

* * *

“It’s finished, it’s here, I have it!” Newt comes bursting down the ladder in a laughing mess, his Niffler and a shower of gold coins crashing down behind him. “This sneaky little fella escaped again and tried to rob Gringotts, Merlin, it took me ages to convince the Goblins to let us go again. Anyway, that’s not the great news, it’s here, it’s my book, I finally have it!”

He drops something heavy and rectangular and red into Credence’s hands and smiles like he wants to hug the whole world. Credence touches the cover carefully, imprinted golden letters spelling out a name. _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them._

“It’s beautiful,” he says, and can’t help but smile back. He can still smell the printing ink; the pages are stiff and full of the detailed drawings Newt made so carefully and it’s perfect.

“Credence, Credence, Credence.” Newt can’t keep still, he’s humming and buzzing and bubbling around. _“Credence._ You know what that means?” He laughs, and with his blue coat and his wild grin he looks so beautiful. He takes the ends of Credence’s yellow-and-black scarf and tugs him closer. “We can go back! I can see my friends again! You can finally meet them! We’ll be all right!”

He’s loose and happy and handsome, so handsome, and Credence feels overwhelmingly small. He presses the book to his chest.

“You know what we have to do, Credence? We need to go out. You need to go out, just one time. We’ll go to Diagon Alley and get you the perfect wand. And then I can teach you how to treat fantastic beasts. And Tina can teach you the best spells to defend yourself. And Queenie can teach you to be kind despite your power. And Jacob can teach you to see past all the darkness and to learn how wonderful magic can be. It’ll be all right. You’ll be all right.”

Credence—

Credence cries. (And laughs, and hiccups and tries to speak past the smile on his lips.)

“Thank you,” he whispers, over and over, and the words don’t taste strange at all.

* * *

Credence is nothing but whispering darkness, and nonetheless Newt Scamander is smiling at him.

* * *

“Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since Three-Hundred-Eighty-Two BC,” Newt declares, as if Credence can’t read the sign above the door. They’ve Apparated directly in front of the shop, and he’s glad about it. He doesn’t want to drown in the bustling crowd. Newt is close, but that’s okay, because it’s Newt. He’s tugging at the scarf again, and smiling. He does a lot of smiling in these days.

“You’re great, you’re doing so great,” he says. Credence ducks his head. It’s too much, but he’s here and he’s going to do it. He is.

He breathes deep, and they enter.

* * *

Credence is nothing but whispering darkness, and Newt Scamander says, “I’m so glad that you’re alive.”

* * *

“A wand always chooses the wizard,” Mr Ollivander says. Credence shakes. He’s so nervous. He’s not a real wizard, isn’t he? He’s not—he’s not—

Fingers tugging at his scarf. He looks up and meets Newt’s eyes. Newt doesn’t look away.

Something tugs inside him. It’s not darkness.

It’s the sixth wand he’s holding when he feels it. It starts slowly and soft, a tickling in his fingertips. Then it swallows him at once, an overwhelming feeling of things finally falling into place, of belonging, of home. Warmth, so much warmth.

“Is this what magic feels like?” he asks, grinning, dizzy, excited. “Is this what it feels like?”

He doesn’t need to see Newt nod to know. He tips his head back and his curls fall into his eyes—they’re longer now, he’s still not used to it. He tips his head back and he allows himself one thing he hasn’t done in a very long time:

Credence Barebone starts to laugh.

* * *

Credence is nothing but whispering darkness, and he explodes.

It’s pain, so much pain, at first. He screams as he rips himself apart, shattering into a thousand pieces with no way to put himself together again. It hurts _so much_. He dies a thousand times, he burns, he freezes, he falls, he stumbles and collides in the dark. And the darkness is no longer whispering. It’s raging and shouting and crying, a thunderstorm, a hurricane that has trapped him at its centre, ice-cold and white-hot and deadly, so deadly. He screams and his lungs fill with smoke and his heart stops beating for a few seconds and he is dying, he is dying, he is dying.

“Credence!” A voice screams his name, over and over. _“Credence!”_

He’s sick and he vomits and suddenly he can see blood, so much _blood_ —

“Help me.” He forces the words past numb lips. A broken voice in the dark. “Please, just help me.”

“I’m here, Credence, I’m here.” The voice is soothing and careful and gentle—as if the speaker is trying not to spook him, as if he were a creature that needs to be approached slowly.

_“Open your eyes, Credence.”_

* * *

Newt Scamander is smiling at him.

The wind is tousling his hair and the ocean and his coat are the same colour and Credence’s scarf is fluttering around them and America is still thousands of miles away.

Credence got his wand tucked behind his ear because like this he can hear the magic humming through it, and that’s making him want to laugh. Something tugs inside him and it’s not darkness.

Newt smiles like he knows it.

“I’m so glad that you’re alive.”

Credence lets himself fall forward into arms that have waited for so long. He buries his face in the crook of Newt’s shoulder and breathes deep. He smells like the weird tea they had just before the departure. (Credence’s mix, pineapple and chocolate and, for some reason, onion soup.) He feels Newt humming just beneath his skin, warm and content. A kiss, pressed to his temple right below his curls, echoes tingling through his body.

“It’s because you saved me.”

* * *

In his first year, he learns three things about Newt Scamander:

1\. He’s better at controlling all that energy bundled up inside of him, releasing bursts of it like tiny explosions of affections to all the people he loves.

2\. He always looks into Credence’s eyes when he’s feels that he needs him.

3\. His smile can light up the whispering darkness.

Credence hasn’t met another person like him before, the odd mix of lovable awkwardness and careful affection. He’s been raised between screams and shadows and sacrifices, and it isn’t easy to forget, but he’s learning.

* * *

Credence is nothing but whispering darkness. He isn’t afraid. He knows he just has to open his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it. Thanks for reading :)
> 
>  
> 
> Have another quote from Erin Morgenstern's wonderful book "The Night Circus", where she's definitely talking about Newt Scamander and all the other precious characters from the movie:
> 
> "They're rather new. What are they called, Widge?"  
> "Fantastically delicious cinnamon things?”


End file.
